The Scoop

by Terence J. Quinn

  Annie nodded. ‘But then? What happens in the morning, if they spot us?’

  ‘We could either swim to the shore and hide in the jungle or make another run for it in The Scoop.’

  ‘Neither sounds a great option. What do you think we should do?’

  ‘We don’t even know for certain that it’s the pirates. So I think we find a good place to anchor for the night and then weigh up our odds in the morning.’

  That night, we huddled together in the saloon, Wagga included. A lone candle provided some ghostly light. We had skipped dinner. Neither of us was hungry.

  We were moored in a cove on the coastline. I had taken the risk of possibly foundering the sloop on a reef or sandbar by tucking in close to the shore. Then I’d taken a further risk by waiting until after dusk before turning in to the cove to prevent the pirates, if that’s who was in the vessel we had seen a long way behind, from knowing where we had gone. My last sight of the dim shape had been inconclusive but I was pretty certain that it was a large vessel of some sort. Meanwhile, there wasn’t much of a moon so I was sure we couldn’t easily be seen where we had anchored.

  There wasn’t the same banter of the previous evening, when we had our tails up and escape looked likely. Instead, we talked more seriously. Annie asked me how I got into journalism.

  ‘I got expelled,’ I said.

  ‘Oh my God! From school? What happened?’

  ‘St Jude’s was run by Jesuits . . . the SAS of the Catholic Church. No sense of humour. One time a condom was found dangling from the outstretched hand of a statue of the Virgin Mary in the assembly hall. Someone dobbed me in.’

  ‘That’s gross,’ Annie said, her nose wrinkling. I had forgotten she was a bit religious.

  ‘In my defence, it was not a used one.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ she said with heavy sarcasm. ‘But how did that lead you to newspapers?’

  ‘My father knew someone at the local paper – the Sans Souci Sentinel. English had been the only thing I was good at. It turned out to be a good fit. I spent four years there – flower shows, council meetings, the odd bit of petty crime, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I met Percy Mimms. He was my boss at the Sunday World in Sydney. I told you about him, remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Martin used to read the Sunday World. Bit of a scandal sheet, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but also a highly professional operation. Percy had been a top guy in Fleet Street and he turned me into a gun tabloid reporter. I owe my career to him and a lot else besides. Later he set me up in London and tipped me off to the scoop that led to the book and the film. I remember him once warning me: “Watch out son, it’s jugular journalism over there. They’d sell their granny for a wee showbiz exclusive.”’ I said it in an exaggerated Scottish accent.

  ‘Ah yes. The book. Haven’t had a chance to read it yet. So it’s about a story you did at the Tribune? I used to read that at the office. So what was it about . . . this famous scoop of yours?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘are you sitting comfortably . . .?’

  I told her about how Percy had tipped me off about a politician that he had tried and failed to nail some years earlier when he had worked in London. The member for Letcham in the Cotswolds, James St John Carmichael, and his wife Josephine were an odious couple, media tarts who had slimed and sleazed their way into the public consciousness via C-List appearances on TV and radio talk shows and comedy panel progs like Have I Got News For You. ‘They claimed to be committed Christians, just like you,’ I smiled at Annie. ‘They were the very stuff Sunday tabloids are made of. One of Percy’s sources had told him that the couple had been regularly attending swingers’ parties in the suburbs. He had made cautious inquiries but soon found himself on the wrong end of a tersely-worded Exocet from the couple’s lawyers. His editor took fright and told Percy to back off.’

  I went on to tell her that, by the time I started at the Trib some years later, the ‘Letch from Letcham’ as he later became known by the tabloids, had become Junior Minister for Defence Procurement in the government. His promotion had not deterred the couple from their relentless pursuit of celebrity or, as it turned out, their swinging lifestyle.

  ‘“Maybe it’s time you took another look at yon wee shites,” Percy had suggested. So I did. For the next seven weeks I worked the story, researching them at night and spending my days off on their trail. Bit by bit I established beyond legal doubt that Josey and her charmless husband were indeed enthusiastic swingers; incredibly, their swinger names were “Josephine” and “Boney-part”.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding!’ Annie’s eyes went wide at that.

  I told her that some of the parties involved drugs, underage girls and rent boys. So far, it was just another standard redtop tabloid story that might make a spread in the Sunday edition. But what turned it into a major scoop that brought the government down was this: ‘Boney-part’ had persuaded two Cabinet ministers, including the Education Secretary, to join their sordid little soirées. One of the rent boys had provided us with photos of both pollies in flagrante delicto with his fourteen-year-old friends.

  ‘Ugh. I am beginning to think all men are irredeemable bastards,’ Annie said. I found it hard to disagree with her.

  ‘So,’ I concluded, ‘to lose one minister to a sex scandal might be construed as careless, to lose three was disastrous. My scoop hammered the final nails into the coffin of a government already reeling from an economic crisis and global terrorism. Not a very pretty story but it had huge consequences.’

  ‘Wow. I vaguely remember it. I think I was still at uni. And the book obviously followed.’

  ‘Hard News was more about my investigation into the scandal and the roadblocks that were put up to try to prevent me from getting to the truth. The film, on the other hand, focused on the sleazy couple, how their arrogance and hubris brought them down.’

  ‘And it brought you fame and fortune. And, of course, The Scoop Jon B.’

  It brought me a lot more than that, I thought. It brought Charlie. It brought shame and self-disgust. But then, it also brought me you.

  ‘So you can see what an influence Percy had on my life.’

  ‘Sounds like an amazing character.’

  ‘I only wish you could have known him.’

  Annie smiled, a genuine, heart-warming smile that lit up her face and seared my soul. ‘He would be proud of the way you have sorted yourself out. And he’d be thrilled by what you did for me on Rehab Island.’

  Wagga was the only one who slept soundly that night. Annie and I sprawled uncomfortably on the saloon settee, our arms around each other for mutual comfort, occasionally dozing off for a few moments before waking up again with a start. I kept thinking over and over how wonderful it was that she trusted me enough to be this close, particularly after what she had said earlier about men.

  On board the Crimson Tide, BangBang was feeling a mix of triumph and frustration. He had watched hungrily as the smaller craft had headed for the coast, its sails reflecting the dying rays of the setting sun; he’d watched it and watched it until the high-powered glasses cut into his cheekbones and the gloom finally wrapped the sleek sailboat in its dark, invisible embrace. He was sure in his bones that the yacht was the one they were hunting.

  Their chances of running down the mongrels had faded with the light. But victory was within his grasp. He could taste it. Tomorrow he would get his precious possessions back and those dogs would pay for their impudence with their lives. More importantly, his own life would no longer be in danger because the syndicate would never know how close to disaster he had come. He would threaten each of his men with extreme violence if they ever told anyone what had happened back at the island.

  At last, he put the binoculars down and rubbed his reddened eyes. ‘Okay, I get some sleep now,’ he’d told the replacement helmsman. ‘Wake me at dawn. Not a moment later, or I toss you to the fucking sharks
.’

  Now all we have to do is stay put for the night and wait for them to appear again in the morning, he mused as he headed for bed. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile as the blood-soaked images of what he’d do to the thieves ran through his mind again and again.

  61

  I WAS still wrapped in Annie’s unconscious embrace when dawn picked out the rugged cliffs of the small cove we had sheltered in overnight in a wan, yellow light.

  Already missing the warmth of her arms, I made my way quietly up to the cockpit without waking her. I figured she needed as much rest as possible. The coming day could be the most frightening and challenging yet. It might even be our last. Like me, she would have to be at her sharpest.

  In that first pale light I looked at the maps: the coastal area was sparsely populated with few towns of any size. Certainly, the terrain looked unwelcome with lots of mangrove swamps and thick vegetation. Looks dangerous, I thought. I’d rather take our chances at sea. So, anxious to get going, I nudged Annie gently awake and told her that I believed we should continue sailing south. ‘We’ll hug the coastline and, worst case, if we see any sign of the pirates, we can still make a dash for the shore and take our chances in the jungle.’

  ‘Won’t they come after us there?’

  ‘If we leave the loot on The Scoop, the bastards might settle for that.’ In fact I was sure they would be hell-bent on hunting us down and killing us but I wanted to sound reassuring. ‘So, basically, I think that’s our best bet.’

  Annie smiled nervously. ‘I don’t like the odds much. But you’re right, we have to take the gamble.’ I could see that she was terrified but she hid it well.

  ‘Okay, let’s get this show underway,’ I said, more heartily than I felt.

  We made a good start. Emerging from the cove’s cocoon there was no sign of life anywhere, apart from a few seabirds. We immediately caught a brisk tide. Then The Scoop was flying along in fifteen knots or more of wind. I smiled at Annie. We were in the cockpit, me standing at the surviving steering helm, Annie sitting at the other one that had been destroyed earlier. She looked a little tired and tense but she smiled bravely back. ‘This is good, isn’t it, Jonno? We’re making great headway and there’s not a sign of a buccaneer or an old seadog to be seen. Apart from you that is!’

  ‘Cheeky. Less of the old, if you please. Fingers crossed, if this keeps up we’ll be having that steak in downtown Jakarta tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll settle for a nice bath and crisp white sheets.’

  Our positive mood lasted less than two hours. Just as we thought we were home and dry, a familiar, sinister shape came into view off to the west. Ah shit. Despite the distance, we both knew it was the pirate ship. It sat on the ocean surface like a giant spider in its web waiting patiently for its juicy prey.

  The vessel was still four or five kilometres away; it would take them a little time to cut us off if our wind held strong. I quickly calculated: probably an hour if we were lucky. Hugging herself, Annie gave me a look of quiet terror tinged with resignation. I think she knew all along that they’d be there. ‘Are you okay?’ I cupped my hands and shouted to Annie in the whistling wind, as I tried to coax another knot out of the sails.

  ‘I’m scared shitless, to be honest. What do we do now?’

  ‘Plan B. I’ll get real close to the coast and we’ll look for a spot where we can land The Scoop. Ideally a bay with no reef. If necessary we’ll just beach the boat and make a run for it. It will probably ruin her but that’s not important now. If you like, we’ll leave all the treasure on board and hope they settle for that and leave us be.’

  ‘Will we have enough time to get away?’

  ‘They won’t be able to bring their ship in close so it will take them some time to get the skiffs sorted and come after us, assuming they found the skiffs. By then, we should be able to find somewhere to hide in the jungle. After that, who knows?’ I tried to keep the despair out of my voice.

  What followed felt like the longest period of time I’d ever experienced. It couldn’t have been more than fifty minutes but it felt like an eternity as I watched the pirate ship charge towards us at a right angle.

  Spotting a landing place on the shore had been difficult; the continuing coastline was jagged, with rugged cliffs and rocky inlets. I looked back: I did not need the binoculars to tell me that the pirate vessel was within spitting distance.

  ‘We’re just going to have to risk the next inlet,’ I said. Annie nodded and I started to turn The Scoop towards the mainland. Just then Annie stood up and shouted ‘What’s that in front?’ She pointed dead ahead but nearly fell over as I brought the sloop steeply around. I looked. Jesus H Christ on a bike, I must be bloody dreaming. ‘Give me the binoculars!’

  A couple of kilometres ahead, there were dozens – no, hundreds – of shapes on the water. ‘Hallelujah!’ I shouted, glee rocketing through my body. I turned the wheel again to take us back on a southern trajectory.

  ‘What is it?’ Annie sounded anxious.

  ‘It’s a fucking fishing fleet! You beauty!’

  Annie looked as if she didn’t know if this news was good or bad, and she gesticulated dementedly to starboard where the pirates were bearing down on us. It seemed as if they would ram The Scoop before we could reach the fishing boats. It was going to be close.

  62

  THE FLEET seemed to line the entire southern horizon; at a quick count, there must be upwards of two hundred large and small craft plus log platforms with coloured flags that trailed their nets on a lumpy sea. Cody and I had seen a similar fleet fishing for skipjack tuna on the trip from Bali to Jakarta. And then I saw another alien shape amid the dark fishing boats. It was much bigger and lighter in colour. With one hand, I trained the glasses on the alien craft, my other hand firmly on the helm.

  ‘It’s a navy ship,’ I cried.

  ‘Jonno, they’re nearly on us!’ Annie’s scream riveted my attention. I looked back to starboard and saw the pirate vessel up close for the first time as it bore down on us like a demon from hell. A majestic, foaming bow wave swept several metres upwards and outwards. Random details imprinted themselves on my mind: the peeling orange paint, the towering prow, the long, fluted timbers of the hull that flared back to the low-slung stern . . . the stocky figure standing squarely on the looming foredeck with a broad smile on his ugly face and a huge weapon in his hands. Jesus!

  I quickly corrected The Scoop’s course so we were heading straight to the fishermen. Then I heard gunfire. ‘Get down!’ I shouted to Annie. When I turned again, it was like a scene from a Tarantino movie: as the big vessel loomed towards us, the grinning bastard was braced in the prow, feet planted on the deck like a sumo wrestler and an automatic weapon kicking in his hands as he sprayed bullets in our direction. Most went over our heads. The vicious ratatatat was audible even above the shrieking wind, the ship’s grinding engine and Annie’s screams. Holding the helm with one hand, I half pushed, half pulled her roughly to the deck with the other and shielded her from the gunfire. Then I felt a sharp, hot tug on my shoulder. Ah shit, not again.

  In the noise and confusion, I heard Annie shout something. Hazarding another look back, I saw a skiff had separated from the mother vessel and was closing in on us. Fuck, fuck. What the hell can we do? There were no weapons on board. I cursed myself for having thrown the dead pirate’s gun in the sea. Then, remembering a stunt from some old Bond movie, I bent down and fumbled open the small door on the steering binnacle, my hand slippery from the blood running down from my shoulder wound. I took out a red and yellow cylindrical canister.

  ‘Annie, quick, take the wheel,’ I shouted. Then, bracing myself against the guardrail, I held the tube up like an Olympic torch. The skiff was just ten metres away. I caught a momentary glimpse of four rough-looking men before I pointed the distress flare at them and pulled the toggle cord. I said a prayer to St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Instantly, the flare ignited, emitting dense clouds of vivid orange and grey smoke. It
shot towards the skiff. Bullseye! All four men immediately jumped overboard as the small wooden craft caught fire and then fishtailed off to our port side in the direction of the mainland. A few moments later, it suddenly exploded in a mass of flames. The flare must have burnt through the fuel line.

  Annie flinched at the explosion but still held on grimly to the helm. I retrieved another flare, pointed it towards the sky and pulled. More clouds of orange and grey as the shining beacon painted the sky above. Surely the navy patrol boat must have already seen the smoke and flames from the skiff explosion? Bullets were still strafing The Scoop and I took the helm again as we continued to fly towards the fishing fleet. It lifted my spirits to see them growing more and more distinct. Maybe we’ll make it? I dared to hope.

  But then, risking another look back, I saw that the pirate ship – sinister against the sun’s glare – was just moments away from ramming us. Fuck, fuck, fuck. We had been so close to reaching safety. I took Annie’s hand and kissed it as we crouched in the cockpit. This is it, I thought. This is the end. The bad guys have won and we are about to die.

  63

  SUDDENLY, UNEXPECTEDLY, the gunfire ceased. Stunned by the abrupt silence, I stood up. The pirate vessel, by now only metres away, was curving away in a steep, starboard arc towards the great open maw of the Indian Ocean. The wash from their turn violently rocked The Scoop and I had to grab Annie to stop her falling over. What the hell? Then I looked ahead and saw that the navy vessel had left the flock of fishermen and its sharp grey bow was now pointing firmly towards us.

  Suddenly there was a huge flash from the cruiser and I saw a rocket take off. I instinctively ducked. But it was not aimed at us and, a moment later, there was a bang and the top corner of the pirates’ wheelhouse disintegrated in a shower of tiny splinters. The shabby vessel seemed to stagger at the impact before resuming its westbound course. I raised my fist and pumped the air. Yesss! Then I winced – it was my wounded arm. I quickly put it back down again.